Turning
By Wingspan
Disclaimer - I own nothing but the situation. Everything else belongs to J.K. Rowling.
He felt his back smash against the wooden walls of the shifting train. His back, turned against so many things, turned and remained turned, at all the suffering. His back, unlistening, uncaring, full of hypocrisy to define what's right and what's wrong.
His back was turned when his godfather was struck. And so the innocent man died, without fully reclaiming his freedom in his earlier life.
And in his own young life?
Rivalry. Always forcing the other boy to face defeat, or to be only second- best. And in his earlier childhood was filled of hiding from abuse, to be forfeited of simplicity just because of something he has no control over. His deceased mother and father. His scar. To be persecuted by a common family's blood.
It was worse for the other boy. To be branded into darkness without choice. His family's blood.
Draco was beating Harry and kicking him and screaming about his father, who perished at Harry's hand, sent to suffer in Akzaban. And Harry allowed him to hurt, burning in his blind malice. Draco's arm was raised, his Dark Mark flashed brilliantly, but not more vividly than the white scars which ran parallel, the unshed tears that tear at his porcelain skin, unable to tear out the unwilling bond. Endless cycle of suffering.
Each to each of their own, is dying inside.
Turned and turned and turned. A fractal of the red of blood soon to be spilt, the white of tears and secrete fluids, the black of unseeing lids. But a whisper's crack broke in both their voices, and mingled the ebony tresses with platinum blond wisps.
And fate was silenced in its persistent grinding, only for a second's interval. A feather-light touch halted the flying fists, and softened the scars. A new intimacy rolled on the tips of their tongues.
Then the wheels of fortune turned again. With new things to be lost and new things to be gained.
Disclaimer - I own nothing but the situation. Everything else belongs to J.K. Rowling.
He felt his back smash against the wooden walls of the shifting train. His back, turned against so many things, turned and remained turned, at all the suffering. His back, unlistening, uncaring, full of hypocrisy to define what's right and what's wrong.
His back was turned when his godfather was struck. And so the innocent man died, without fully reclaiming his freedom in his earlier life.
And in his own young life?
Rivalry. Always forcing the other boy to face defeat, or to be only second- best. And in his earlier childhood was filled of hiding from abuse, to be forfeited of simplicity just because of something he has no control over. His deceased mother and father. His scar. To be persecuted by a common family's blood.
It was worse for the other boy. To be branded into darkness without choice. His family's blood.
Draco was beating Harry and kicking him and screaming about his father, who perished at Harry's hand, sent to suffer in Akzaban. And Harry allowed him to hurt, burning in his blind malice. Draco's arm was raised, his Dark Mark flashed brilliantly, but not more vividly than the white scars which ran parallel, the unshed tears that tear at his porcelain skin, unable to tear out the unwilling bond. Endless cycle of suffering.
Each to each of their own, is dying inside.
Turned and turned and turned. A fractal of the red of blood soon to be spilt, the white of tears and secrete fluids, the black of unseeing lids. But a whisper's crack broke in both their voices, and mingled the ebony tresses with platinum blond wisps.
And fate was silenced in its persistent grinding, only for a second's interval. A feather-light touch halted the flying fists, and softened the scars. A new intimacy rolled on the tips of their tongues.
Then the wheels of fortune turned again. With new things to be lost and new things to be gained.